


No Escalation

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathtub, M/M, Mobile - Freeform, Omelette, tv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic evening with Greg and Mycroft, eavesdropping on them on a rare night off. Omelettes, bathtubs, TV. </p><p>I am contractually[1] obligated to add this:<br/>"Fucking just read it, its too perfect for words' - Mystradedoodles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Escalation

Mycroft was standing in the living room when Greg finally arrived home. “Hiya,” he called, taking off his coat. “Bloody juries.”

Mycroft glanced at him, his train of thought broken. “Mm? Oh, yes. It will fail on appeal.”

“Yeah?” Greg shut the closet door and went to flop on one of the chairs. “Good to know. What are you up to?”

Mycroft had been home for some time, as he’d removed his jacket. His cuffs were still in place, but his shoes off. He shook his head, then took a deep breath, as if just waking up. “No, nothing. Something someone said today, his figures were off. I’ll have to pull his report and check it.”

“Have you eaten? I grabbed a sandwich while we were waiting, but there’s still some of the beef left.”

“I may have something later. No reason to trouble you.”

“You sure? ‘S no trouble. Anything outside that courtroom is fine by me.” Greg picked up the remote and switched the telly on, flicking idly through the channels, the sound muted.

“There’s some more of that Shiraz, if you’re interested.”

“Now that sounds lovely, thanks.” Greg toed off his boots, letting them fall and nudging them aside with his toe as he slumped lower in his chair, his eyes fixed on the screen. “You still haven’t sorted out Turkey, then?” he called, a mischievous smile on his lips as he read the scrolling feed across the bottom of the newscast.

“Not my division,” Mycroft said coolly, his steps into the kitchen very slow and deliberate, his hands in his pockets. “I’m not always asked, you know.”

“You need to be bossier, man. Sort these people out.”

Mycroft paused next to the kitchen table, flipping open a folder he’d left there earlier and scanning through it. “Thank goodness I don’t answer to you,” he said absently. “I think I’ll join you.”

Greg turned his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Wine, y’mean?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, but Greg heard the clink of two glasses being set down on the counter before the thunk of the decanter opening. Greg pushed himself to his feet and shifted two paces to his right, sprawling on the sofa this time, his arms stretched out along the back. He glanced up as Mycroft came back with the wine, pausing to hand Greg his glass before folding himself neatly into the corner of the sofa, one hand holding his glass to his lips while he guided Greg into place against his side, his eyes already on the screen. He reached absently for the remote in Greg’s hand, after a moment.

“Oy,” Greg said, pulling his hand away and thumbing the sound up. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. They watched the report in silence. “Do you believe this?” he asked when it finished.

“What, the shooting? Seems plausible.”

Mycroft nodded. “It does, doesn’t it.”

Greg twisted his head to look up at him. “Cover story?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows flickered, and he took another sip of wine, keeping his eyes on the screen. 

Greg settled back against him. “Don’t want to know. I wasn’t called in.”

“You won’t be,” Mycroft said firmly. 

“Sherlock?”

“Changed your mind?”

“What?”

“You didn’t want to know.”

Greg thought for a second. “Nope. Still don’t.”

“Mm.”

There was another long, companionable silence, until Greg gave a deep sigh and shifted onto his back, his head on Mycroft’s lap, his ankles resting on the arm of the sofa. Mycroft glanced down, his fingers buried deep in Greg’s hair, and smiled. “You’re such easy company.”

“I am not easy.”

Mycroft stroked his hand across Greg’s hair again, and Greg’s eyes slid closed. Mycroft snorted, and Greg didn’t bother to hide his smile. “I may as well tell you - Sherlock’s taken a case in Australia. He’ll be gone for a week.”

“A week?” Greg looked up again. “Hell of a long flight for just a week.”

“Yes.” 

Greg waited, then realised there was something more going on. “He’s not on a commercial flight, is he.”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “I was merciful.” He paused, then there was a small, silent laugh that shook Greg’s head, making him grin in anticipation. “Sherlock, in a DC-10, economy class.”

Greg’s laugh was loud. “His knees up his nose.” He paused. “John’d be all right, though.”

“Don’t make me regret my kindness.”

“Next time. Next time he goes somewhere reasonable. Germany, or something. And it’s still kind - John would _love_ watching that.”

“True. John will need the window seat, for protection.”

“But that’d give Sherlock the aisle,” Greg complained, disappointed. 

“Not if it’s a busy flight. Then they’ll use the 350 passenger layout, with three seats by the port windows.”

“And fill the aisle seat with some poor punter?”

“Or a Mrs-Hudson type.”

“You’re a cruel bastard.”

“And you love it.”

“I do,” Greg admitted, grinning and wrinkling his nose. “I get to be evil by proxy.”

“How unlike you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Greg lifted his head for a careful sip from his glass. “That reception still on tomorrow?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes. I won’t be there, but they’re carrying on.”

“Do you need a cover story?” Mycroft looked at him, his eyebrows lifted. “No, I mean, are you going to be waiting in the wings, or busy somewhere else, where you can’t be interrupted?”

“I’ve not decided.” Mycroft thought for a moment, his gaze wandering. Greg adjusted his head, watching his toes, wiggling them idly. “Compromise. Elsewhere, but I shall have contingency plans in place.”

“That’s very responsible.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped back to him. “Don’t start.”

“But it’s just going to keep happening.”

“That fact will not change no matter what I do.”

“If you’re certain, then you might as well just go along tomorrow and take care of it in person.”

“Causing offense simply by being present.”

“Look, I don’t care which you do - it’s up to you. I just think you should commit to one or the other.”

“Neither of which will be successful. This is why I have my work, and you have yours.”

“But you always have to compromise.”

“It is a different skill set. You patrol the border, and need things divided into black and white. My world is more about stitching edges together and combining things into greys.”

“You just get everything grubby, then.”

“Careful, Greg,” Mycroft said, his fingers curling in Greg’s hair.

“Aiieee!” He dropped the remote on his chest and raised his hand to catch Mycroft’s, teasing it out of his hair and bringing it onto his throat. “I just mean that... an absolute now and then, you’d find it relaxing.”

“I would,” Mycroft agreed, nodding slowly. “But it’s not worth the expense.”

“How bad could it be?”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft thought for a moment. “Ambassadors can’t communicate, no niceties can be observed, no invitations extended, talks slowed down, trade routes cramped, refugees unhoused, taxes rise, public opinion falters...”

“Rioting, bloodshed, mass hysteria,” Greg finished with a sigh. “You’re going to dress for it and everything, aren’t you.”

“Of course.”

“Did you get your shoes back?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Some weeks ago.”

“Was it? Ohh.” Greg frowned. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I stopped noticing.”

“That was rather the point.”

Greg grinned and wrinkled his nose. “All for meee! Stop it. You probably drove Anthea ‘round the twist.”

“I was at the Diogenes that day.”

“They must have loved you.”

“No one said anything.” 

Greg laughed, hard enough that it raised a chuckle from Mycroft as well. “I wonder how many of them were texting about you - ‘Creaker in the library.’ ‘Who is that squeaky fucker?’”

“No.”

“You can’t tell me they’ve not got mobiles.”

“Twitter addicts,” Mycroft agreed darkly. “Most politicians are. But no, they would have known that I would have noticed.”

“Deducing people’s texts?”

“Passes the time,” Mycroft said innocently.

“Filthy liar.”

“Don’t force me to the proof.”

“Nah, you know me too well. No, second thoughts, I’m not pushing this because if I found someone I could believe you weren’t mind-controlling, and you got it right, you’d have to kill me.”

“Without a second’s hesitation.”

Greg lifted his glass towards his lips, then grunted, which turned into a shout. “Ohh, _fuck off!”_ He raised the remote and the TV went dark. Mycroft blinked at him. “That stupid commercial. Ever since Sally complained about it, it’s been getting on my nerves.”

“Fine. As we’re having a quiet night in, I fancy a bath.”

Greg lifted his head from Mycroft’s lap immediately and sat up. “Mm! Go for it. D’you want company?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“And I wouldn’t have sat up,” Greg countered before downing the rest of his wine. Mycroft’s glass was already empty. “Tell you what. You turn the taps on, I’ll do us some food.”

“No escalations,” Mycroft said firmly, his fingers already at work on the buttons of his waistcoat.

“What?”

“Omelette becomes a souffle becomes a three-course meal -”

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg waved him off, grabbing his empty glass off the end table. “Just an omelette. You want toast?”

“Just an omelette!” Mycroft called, walking down the hall toward the bedroom, peeling off his waistcoat to the sound of Greg’s laugh behind him.

Mycroft padded quietly into the bedroom, listening to Greg’s comforting clatter in the kitchen. His jacket was already hanging in the wardrobe, and he pulled it out, sliding his waistcoat onto the same hanger. He heard Greg swear about something in the kitchen - probably separating the yolks and whites. He smiled, working the knot from his tie and smoothing it before draping it onto the rack. 

“How many ingredients have you added?” he called, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why can’t I hear any water?” Greg shouted back.

Mycroft grinned, turning and crossing the hallway to the bathroom and flipping open the hot tap before returning to the bedroom, freeing his cufflinks and dropping them into the dish before sliding his shirt off his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks, straightening them and laying them across his shirt on the bed beside him before moving on to his trousers, which joined the rest of his suit in the wardrobe. Sliding his boxer-briefs down his legs, he stepped out of them, tossed them on the bed with the rest of his laundry, and scooped up his dark red brocade dressing gown, belting it around himself as he went to check on Greg in the kitchen.

Greg had two modes, when cooking. Slapdash, and meticulous. When Mycroft was involved, it was always an effort to avoid meticulous. Of course he always wanted to impress him with his best, but Mycroft wasn’t one of nature’s gourmands. It wasn’t wasted on him; he simply had different priorities. But this meant that the kitchen wasn’t his natural habitat, and when Greg cooked, Mycroft generally got on with something else. This left Greg alone in the kitchen, which he used to prefer, but in this case it wasn’t so much a freedom from interruptions as an absence of Mycroft. And this lead to the slapdash approach of sandwiches, pre-bagged salads, bread-machine bread, and omelettes. Then followed the vague guilt of giving Mycroft a plate of something that was less than perfect, and an urge to apologise. He would be waved off, and silently promise himself to make up for it next time. With their schedules, however, there was no telling when “next time” might be. 

So on a relaxed evening like this, Greg’s warring impulses came to the fore. He had time to do something spectacular, and a notion that Mycroft probably needed something healthy to counter his own inattention to his diet. And yet there was a tub filling with hot water and soothing scented oils, and his lover stripping in the other room. An ideal evening, so long as he didn’t spend three-quarters of it in the kitchen. 

He had the egg whites separated for Mycroft’s omelette, the yolks bundled away into the freezer, a bit of chopped ham and cheese, and was slicing the mushrooms when he felt a hand settle on his shoulder.

“Never occurred to you that I could lose a finger if I jumped, did it?” Greg said without looking up from his chopping board.

“You wouldn’t do that. You knew I’d check on you.”

Greg smiled unwillingly. “Yeah, fine. No onions. But you’re getting peppers.”

Mycroft selected a delicate slice of mushroom, holding it up carefully between index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers relaxed and slightly splayed. “Almost translucent. You’re certain you’re not escalating?” He slipped the slice into his mouth with a graceful swirl of his tongue.

“No onions, no tomatoes, no sauce. You get Emmenthal cheese and ham to make sure you eat it in the first place, and to get some protein in you.”

“And the thinness of the slices?”

“Cooks faster. Go make sure the tub hasn’t run over.”

Mycroft snorted quietly, but left him to his work. When he was certain he was alone, Greg raided the spice rack. He could compromise. Mycroft couldn’t object to seasoning. If he played things right, Mycroft might never realise how much he was enjoying the food. 

He heard the sound of the water change, knowing that the taps were now on full, and now the pressure was on. The peppers were already sliced, but he slapped them down and chopped them, exposing more surface area to the heat of the pan. Then it was just a matter of pouring things and keeping an eye on the edges. He had a moment to unbutton his shirt and loosen the laces of his shoes before sliding things onto warm plates. Grabbing two forks, he left the kitchen.

“Here you are,” Greg said, lowering the plate into Mycroft’s hand where he sat in the tub, a soft layer of suds hiding the surface of the water.

“Thank you. Did you want to eat first or join me?”

“Join you, if you don’t mind.”

One side of Mycroft’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Clothes off first this time, I think.”

Greg grinned, kicking his shoes off in the direction of the hall. He set his plate beside the sink and shucked off his clothing, dropping his shirt first, then doing trousers, boxers, and socks in one long sweep. “It was fun, though.”

“Comfortable can be under-appreciated.”

“Don’t worry. Make some room,” Greg said, standing beside the tub and lifting his plate.

“Let me hold it for you,” Mycroft offered, his free hand reaching up for the plate.

“Ta.” Greg rested one hand against the wall and stepped in, moving slowly so he didn’t splash. “Ohh, perfect,” he groaned as the warmth seeped into his legs. He knelt down and turned, setting his back against Mycroft’s long arm and reaching up to take his plate.

“Beautifully done,” Mycroft said after a moment, swallowing his first bite.

“Fanks,” Greg said around his mouthful. “Wait. You mean getting in, or the omelette?”

“I was speaking a little more personally.”

Greg looked back at him with a frown, then laughed at Mycroft’s expression. “Piss off. I’m eating.”

Mycroft snorted, then laughed as he took another forkful. “Smug idiot.”

“Don’t ruin this. I was happy.”

“I beg your pardon.” Mycroft was quiet for a moment, the soft lapping of the water and the scrape of fork tines on china the only sounds. “I think I may need to be in Dulwich later this week.”

“Another conference?”

“Informal. I don’t anticipate more than one night. Are you able to get away?”

“What, to Dulwich? I don’t see why not. It’s not that much farther.”

“I meant professionally.”

“Oh.” Greg thought for a moment, chewing. “I think so. Donovan should be able to chase down the rest of the witnesses. I can do the paperwork anywhere, so long as I’ve net access. Unless something comes up, of course.”

“Understood as always, of course.”

“Why, you need me to be your heavy?”

“Not exactly. I think a police presence may reassure one or two of the more excitable attendees.”

“Do they have records?”

“Not in this country.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake. Why are you even doing these things?”

Mycroft shrugged, setting his fork across his plate and sliding lower into the water. “If I don’t, then one of the ministers is likely to suggest she oversee the process, and become invested in it as a legacy issue.”

“And you’re not,” Greg prodded, spearing the last of his eggs and setting his plate on the floor, then reaching for Mycroft’s, making a neat stack of them.

“My legacy is vastly more complex. This is a minor piece, and I am ready to walk away from proceedings should it become necessary.”

Greg settled back against him. “Your legacy. You shouldn’t even have one.”

“If the world does not end in a nuclear meltdown in my lifetime, then that will be my legacy,” Mycroft said calmly, running his hand down Greg’s arm, into the water. 

“I wonder what mine would be,” Greg said, tipping his head back against Mycroft and sliding lower until his chin was underwater.

“Improved public relations, working relationships outside of the force, professional networks, and a successful prosecution rate unlikely to be matched.”

Greg twitched, smiling at the prompt praise. “You think so?”

Mycroft squeezed him closer. “Don’t ask that when you know I’ve access to all of the records.”

“Unmatched? Really?”

“Well. Part of that credit is due to my brother.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. I guess. For a second there I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.”

“So you should. Can you imagine anyone else initiating that relationship and making a success of it? Certainly _I_ never could have persuaded him to consult with any professional agency or public service.”

“He’s not that bad. He’s mellowed a lot.”

“And to whom is due the credit for that?”

“John?”

“A relationship you could have soured quite easily. Strangled it at birth.”

“But I wouldn’t do that.”

“Precisely.”

“I dunno, though. Is Sherlock really all I’ve got?”

“You’re being ridiculous, Greg.”

“Then it shouldn’t be hard to answer.”

Mycroft sighed, reaching up to tip Greg’s had closer and kiss his hair before speaking. “Without you, Donovan and Anderson would have imploded, possibly taking the entire department with them. I might have lit on the idea of Sherlock’s consulting, but it would not have been the success it has. Many of the cases you’ve cleared usually require a degree of patience and wisdom not found in any of your peers.”

“Okay, you can stop. I’m not really that insecure.”

“If you were, I’d drown you out of boredom.”

“And what happens to smug political consultants?”

“Something rather similar, I imagine.”

Greg reached across to Mcyroft’s side, making him twitch a little, with the gurgle of the water emphasising the move. “Careful, now. I just wanted to touch you.”

“Unexpected, that’s all.”

Greg smiled, pressing his palm against the soft, smooth skin. “Silly of you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, occasionally shifting their hips lazily, letting the water sway them together, then drifting still again. “Do you fancy the jets?” Greg asked quietly.

“For a bit,” Mycroft said, rousing himself, sitting up a bit straighter. 

“Ten minutes?”

“Twenty?”

“Twenty it is,” Greg said, leaning over the side to manage the buttons of the control panel. With a gurgling roar, the jets began to spout at them, pummeling their backs and legs with a warm blast. They separated slightly, drifting apart as the force of the water began to loosen them. Mycroft nudged Greg’s shoulder, making him open his eyes. “Here.”

Greg took the soft fold of terry cloth and draped it over his face, sinking a little lower in the water, protected from the mounding bubbles and the occasional splash. Half-floating, he felt Mycroft’s hand slip inside his own, fingers curling around his.

By the time the jets wound down, Greg was half-asleep. The drone had become white noise, a background constant, Mycroft’s hand anchoring him as he mind drifted. He opened his eyes with a small sigh and looked over, seeing Mycroft’s head tilted back against the headrest, a dry cloth over his face as well. 

“Hey.” Greg squeezed his hand.

Mycroft caught his breath with a start, reaching up to pull the cloth away and squinting and blinking briefly in the light. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Greg grinned at him. “Nah. Just don’t want us both falling asleep in here and drowning.”

Mycroft nodded, taking a deep, measured breath. “You’re right.”

Greg stepped out first, just remembering in time that their plates were still on the floor. “Ahh. Plates.” He grabbed for his towel, wrapping it around himself and scrubbing offhis back.

Mycroft opened the drain and got to his feet, standing in the tub a moment as the water cascaded off of him, flicking more of it off with his hands, sliding them down his legs and torso as he waited for Greg to finish drying himself. “Bed, I think.”

“That’s my plan,” Greg said from behind his towel. “Want the heat on?”

“Thank you.” Greg flicked a switch, and an overhead fan started whirring, the first blast of it cold before it heated to a warming downdraft. Mycroft caught his balance on the wall before stepping carefully onto the rug and reaching for his towel.

“Careful. You’re pretty wobbly already. Did you take a pill?”

“Hm?” Mycroft glanced up from drying his feet. “No. But I drifted off, I think.”

“Yeah, you got pretty relaxed. Good for you.” Greg took his thick black robe off the back of the door. “Hurry up and dry off so I can open the door.”

“I am, I am,” Mycroft sighed. He put his towel back on the rack and took the red robe Greg held out. “All right.”

Greg crossed to the far side of the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I know I’ve been tired, lately, but I don’t remember the last time I felt so _sleepy,”_ he said around a yawn, running a hand through the back of his hair.

“Lavender, camomile, and a few others,” Mycroft answered, opening a drawer and removing a set of deep, wine-red pyjamas. 

“What others?” Greg asked, watching Mycroft redress himself, this time in soft silk.

“Bergamot, frankincense, and ylang-ylang.”

“Frankincense? Like, church smell?”

“It predates churches. I’ve always found it comforting.”

“Where do you get this stuff?” Greg asked, yawning again and hesitating before reaching into one of the drawers beside him and removing a pair of soft cotton knit pyjama bottoms. He rocked onto his back on the bed, thrusting both legs in at once.

“Usually Anthea. I believe she has been alarmed on a number of occasions by my lack of sleep.”

“Not a problem tonight,” Greg said, rolling onto his back and reaching out. “Come on.”

“Just a minute,” Mycroft said, his voice testy as he went to hang his robe on the back of the door. Then he switched off the overhead light, tapped a table-side lamp that lit at his touch, and went to sweep the drapes closed behind the blinds.

“Gonna sleep in?” Greg asked as Mycroft finally seated himself on his side of the bed, allowing himself to be gathered closer in Greg’s arms.

“Perhaps. It will depend.” 

His voice trailed off, and Greg glanced down at him, realising Mycroft had almost explained more than he’d intended. “And I thought I was tired.”

“Mm. Perhaps I am.”

“Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.” Greg rubbed his hand down Mycroft’s back. “You have any appointments in the morning?”

“Probably.” 

Greg waited a moment, then snorted. Mycroft grunted and blinked, startled. “Hang on.” Greg pulled his arms away and pushed himself up. Frowning, Mycroft rolled to watch him leave the bedroom. He blinked slowly, then made a face and rolled his eyes. “For goodness’s sake,” he muttered to himself, rolling off the bed and dragging the duvet back. 

When Greg returned, Mycroft was lying in much the safe position, only this time with the duvet over his legs. “Where’s your mobile?” Greg asked, setting his on the table next to his side of the bed.

“Drawer,” Mycroft said. 

“You left it in here while you were in the tub?” Greg asked in disbelief.

“Dressing gown,” Mycroft said.

Greg blinked, then relaxed and nodded. “Okay.”

“You could have asked,” Mycroft said mildly, welcoming Greg back into bed by wrapping his arms around him and snugging his head onto Greg’s shoulder.

“I was trying to look after you. Don’t worry, won’t happen again.”

He felt Mycroft’s face move in a smile. “You sleepy thing.”

“Fine. _You_ turn out your light.”

Mycroft laughed, flopped onto his back, flailed out with one arm and brushed the edge of the lampshade, making it wink out. 

 

Some hours later, Greg felt the bed move, and opened his eyes, immediately wide awake. The room was still dark, and he had a sense that it was still the middle of the night.

“Of course not. What have they found?” Mycroft voice said, fading out as the bedroom door closed silently behind him.

Greg rolled back onto his side. There was a time when he would have sat up, turned on the light, got dressed, been ready at the door with his keys in his hand before Mycroft had ended the call. He’d done that twice. The first time, Mycroft had quietly assured him that while yes, he had to leave, Greg would not be able to come along for security reasons. The second time, he had hung up with a sigh, turned to see Greg at the door, vibrating with readiness, and burst out laughing. That time, they’d gone straight back to bed. 

These days when Mycroft’s phone rang in the wee small hours, Greg knew that it could be anything from the start of a war to Sherlock complaining about a piece of evidence he was being denied. If Mycroft needed him, he knew he could do so without needing permission or requiring an apology. Most of the time, it was sorted out before morning and Greg was barely aware it had happened. 

A few minutes later, the door reopened, and Greg felt the slight movement of Mycroft returning to bed. “Crisis averted?”

“Hush. Sleep.”

Greg smiled, and rolled over to curl up against Mycroft’s side. “The world is safe. Mycroft Holmes has his mobile.”

“Set on vibrate. Hush. Sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Marriage contract. Completely legal and totally binding.


End file.
